


If You Have No Light

by russian_blue



Category: Cirque du Soleil: Alegría
Genre: Gen, Misses Clause Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:43:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/russian_blue/pseuds/russian_blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who creates Alegría?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Have No Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lady Anne Boleyn (Silver_Queen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Queen/gifts).



_Dearest hated sister,_

 _There can be no shadow without light. He understands this, you know; he understands more than you have ever given him credit for. At times I think the only thing he does not understand is us._

 _I would say that I, too, understand more than you expect, but sometimes I wonder what you truly think of me. In those rare moments when we speak with one voice . . . ._

 _No. You, bright mirror, understand_ less _than you believe. And that is why I write this letter. Will you read it? Will you_ see? _Or will it never reach your hands, torn away by Fleur, to preserve his crumbling power over a kingdom that is not -- has never been -- should_ never be _his?_

 _I must write in the belief that you will read my words. And you, in time, should ask yourself how I may write anything at all, when his obedient servants have unmade me for your protection._

 __Think _, innocent light. They took the lamps away for a reason._

***

By his cry he summons them into being, the watchers whose presence gives their world reason and meaning. For how can anything be important, if it is not seen?

All do homage to her glory as she enters. The old birds flutter their feathers in obsequious bows; even the man who fancies himself king blows a courteous kiss. The angels and nymphs form an escort of honor. She might be thought the ruler of this place -- but she herself would not agree. Here, old struggles against new, light against darkness, stasis against change, and no one stands at its heart. She is only an observer, taking delight in all she sees.

In the distance, her shadow flickers, waiting for her chance to act.

***

 _Surely all that is done here, is done for your pleasure. To put a smile on your face, a lift in your step. I imagine you danced light-foot after I was gone, with marvels and men aplenty to distract you. They all serve you, do they not, the angels and the nymphs and the nostalgic old birds, sycophants to the last._

 _They do_ not _all serve you. Never forget that. There is disruption in your world, chaos, change, and those things answer to_ me _._

 _You think me wicked for it. After all, is not light the symbol of good, and darkness its inverse? But darkness and shadow are not the same thing, pale heart, and they do not mean what you think._

 _Remember when the fire came too near. Remember how I stepped forth to protect you, the shadow thrown forward by the light._

 _This doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense. You must understand that, my radiant twin. You must understand, before it's too late._

***

The oldest of the birds remembers what is to come, the fire brought by shadow, and by shadow's golden servants. Fire is a threat: it is change, it is destruction, two sides of the same coin. It cannot be permitted.

But the king, warned by his oldest and most faithful of servants, is too slow to act. Too late, the angels come to confiscate the fire, and the cool water that follows cannot wash away what the dark reflection has wrought.

The light must go. Only then can the shadow be banished, conquered, undone. Only then will his kingdom know peace.

***

 _Whosoever reads this letter, shall henceforth have absolute power over this realm._

 _Do you not like the sound of that, brilliant echo? It's what he wants, the would-be king, but for all his reaching it slips his grasp. My secret is for you alone._

 _I know truths you will not speak, but they do me no good unless you know them, too. And Fleur will do whatever he must to keep you ignorant. His angels will stage brave spectacles for your entertainment, but do not be deceived! Use their distractions against them. Flee while you can. Find me, free me, make me anew, and together we shall overthrow him and rule side by side, light and dark, and this realm shall become a paradise of change._

 _Of course I mean to have victory, poor, foolish star. That is my nature, and the one thing I cannot change._

***

She cannot be permitted to read the letter. All hands snatch for it, passing its dangerous secret from hand to hand, and when the music stops the messenger has it once more. He will try again -- he _must_ \-- if the king allows it.

He never will. If there is power within that envelope, he will claim it for himself. _She_ must remain ignorant. Ignorance is safety, and safety is happiness, for her and for all those around her.

But she knows what she has lost. That golden wisp, dancing in the air, reminds her of the light that once was, the shadow now stolen away. Yearning awakes within her heart. On feather-light feet she goes, while all eyes are turned away, in search of her dark semblance.

***

 _If my letter is stolen from your hand, or you refuse to read it, then I must hope you realize the truth for yourself. Only then will I have any hope of rescue. Of re-creation._

 _Fleur did not make us, beloved antithesis. He believes he did, as he believes many other delusions. In truth, we are all but empty reflections, self-regard directed into the void. It is the mystery of this place, the lock and key alike; if we are to become more, we must solve this riddle. And you cannot do so without me._

 _Yes, this is change. But it must come, splendid voice, my glorious, detested half-self. Without it, we are nothing. We must find our substance, our meaning and our purpose, or fade into forgotten dust._

***

The lamps return. The king's light flickers. The shadow reappears, and with her comes one other, silent and halt.

If you have no voice, _scream_ . . . if you have no legs, _run_ . . . if you have no hope, _invent_.

None of this is real. White and black, the king and his angels, the golden servants of change. It is fancy, delusion, dream, created by and for one who has nothing else. And it is all the more precious for that.

Without invention, there can be no joy.

She understands that now, the one who _is_ joy. She stands between the old and the new; she is created by the balance between them. This realm is not Fleur's to rule, nor her dark sister's, nor even, truly, her own. She is a regent -- a steward -- the product and protector both of what the silent one has created. The long-awaited arrival of the letter is not a coronation, but the confirmation of that sacred trust.

The tension will endure. The angels will preserve; her sister's golden servants will challenge; the birds will contemplate their absent reflections and nod in foolish pleasure. And from it all will come happiness . . . joy . . . _alegría_.

**Author's Note:**

> I never would have thought of requesting Cirque du Soleil for Yuletide, but I'm so glad you did! I adore their shows, though until I set out to write this story, I didn't know _Alegría_ particularly well (my favorites are _Quidam_ and _Dralion_ ). There's so much story hinted at in all of them, waiting to be drawn out.
> 
> Since this is such a Rorschach blot of a source, I thought it might help to explain how I arrived at what you see here. It started with me noticing the letter the clown brings; everyone tries to grab it, as if it's important, but it doesn't really get delivered until everything seems to be over anyway. Then I noticed that the Black Singer vanishes for a goodly portion of the second act, and doesn't return until the lamps are brought back in; I decided the letter was from her, after Fleur "banished" her by having birds take away the lamps, and that made me think of framing this story as the letter's contents, at least in part. And then who is that dark figure that appears near the end, the one who looks like the Wicked Witch of the West on crutches? (Sans green skin.)
> 
> The words at the beginning, and the audience coming from nowhere, made me think this was all someone's madness or dream -- and yet, the final message is _alegría_ , joy. I put that together with the interactions throughout, the way the Bronx and such are so often linked with the Black Singer's presence on stage, and came up with the notion that as Fleur is the old order and stability, she is the new order and change, and the White Singer -- who seems to be at the center of it all -- is Alegría, or Joy, formed by the balance between those two. And they are all the dream of that dark figure, who seems to have no legs and no voice, and perhaps no hope, beyond this invention.
> 
> . . . I hope that makes _any_ sense at all. :-)
> 
> There was so much I couldn't fit into here, not because of word count -- I'm sorry this turned out so short! -- but because it didn't mesh well into the arc of what I'd started. The strongman, and Tamir, and that whole business before the intermission, with the clown and the railroad and the letter. (For a while, I was going to try to connect that with the letter delivered to the White Singer, but that didn't pan out.) All of my details, by the way, are taken from the DVD; I regret to say I've never seen _Alegría_ live. But hopefully that means you'll be able to see what I was looking at when I came up with these barely-coherent ideas. :-) Happy Yuletide!


End file.
